


arachne, unravelling

by Emmar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 20:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmar/pseuds/Emmar
Summary: You can take the girl out of the Red Room, but--Well, you know the rest.(The Avengers are Natasha's morality chain, for better or worse.)





	arachne, unravelling

**Author's Note:**

> This came about after I watched IW again, had some Civil War feels, and read a lot of incredibly salty Team Iron Man fic. No bashing, but this Steve has... Priorities. And no problem justifying them to himself.
> 
> Essentially, this is a Natasha who's spent so long pretending emotions at the behest of others that she doesn't really know how to process or categorise her own. Or: I continue to project my autism onto fictional characters in weird ways.
> 
> Also, the deeper implications of the data dump in CATWS are pretty horrifying, and I like to believe in a Nat who wasn't that fucking callous.
> 
> Essentially, she asks herself, how would [X] feel about me doing this? Given the company she keeps, not necessarily the best coping mechanism, but.
> 
> Unbeta'd, as always, so do let me know if you spot any mistakes.

When Clint wakes, his mind is entirely, blessedly _quiet_ , and he takes five seconds to be grateful before he opens his eyes.  
  
The face he sees is familiar, but the expression, not so much.  
  
“What happened?”  
“Cognitive recalibration,” says Nat, a wry twist to her lips. “I hit you really hard in the head.”  
  
He wants to laugh, but his ribs hurt and he feels-- scrubbed clean, inside. He manages an amused huff and sits up, ignoring the twinge in his ribs. The overwhelming emotion right now is-- god, he's _free_ , and he wishes like hell he could spare five minutes to _feel_ it, to weep and rage and storm, but Nat's face tells him he can't. It tells him a hell of a lot more than that, actually, and he clears his throat to get her attention.  
  
_You're afraid,_ he signs, and she gives him a grimace trying its best to be a smile.  
_I didn't think I knew how any more,_ she admits, hands expressive in a way her voice so rarely is, and he gives her a crooked, sympathetic smile. He gets it, now, in a way he never fundamentally could, before. Being unmade.  
  
He wishes he didn't.  
  
(“Come on, Stark,” he hears over the comms, hours later, and wonders if Nat even realises what she's feeling.  
  
Probably not, he concedes, but she doesn't tell anyone when, trailing behind the others in search of shawarma, he puts his face in his hands and sobs, only puts a hand on his shoulder and averts her gaze, so at least it's only her _own_ emotions she still can't read.)  
  
\---  
  
The Black Widow is hands down the most terrifying woman Sam has ever met, without even trying, and the fact that Captain America just leans back in the back passenger seat and goes the fuck to sleep somehow just makes it _worse_. Her eyes flick over the blonde, and something that's almost a smile touches her lips, just for a second.  
  
He very carefully keeps his eyes on the road, even as she turns that piercing gaze on him.  
  
“Will it distract you if I make a call?” she asks, and there's something off about the wording, but he's too damn tense to work out what right now.  
“Naw, go ahead,” he says, and isn't at all surprised when she turns on the speaker. The voice that answers is smooth, cultured, undeniably British.  
  
“Agent Romanov. How may I assist?”  
  
Despite not moving a muscle, everything about Romanov seems to _soften_.  
  
“Jarvis. I need to speak with Tony-- and you, come to think of it.”  
“Then I will save you having to explain yourself twice,” says Jarvis, and then--  
“What's up, itsy bitsy?”  
  
Sam _absolutely does not_ almost crash the car, no sir, he does _not_ nearly shit himself at the unexpected sound of _Tony fucking Stark_.  
  
“In the next three hours, I'm going to burn SHIELD,” says Romanov, and Sam doesn't understand a goddamn word, but apparently Stark does, by the silence, broken by a shattering of glass.  
  
“Run that by me again,” says Stark, all joviality gone.  
“SHIELD's compromised. HYDRA.”  
“...How long?”  
  
Romanov presses her lips together and then says, “I'm sorry, Tony.”  
  
Stark starts to swear, loud and sulfurous, getting further away from the phone, and Jarvis takes the call, tone much cooler than when he answered.  
  
“You said you required my presence in this conversation,” he says, without a hint of question, but the implication that Romanov better hurry the _fuck_ up with _why_ is clear.  
  
“Full and complete disclosure is the only way to root them out. I need you and Tony to take this window and get as many deep cover agents out as you can.”  
  
There's a contemplative sort of silence on the other end, and Romanov's lips twitch in that almost-smile again.  
  
“Not going to bluff about how you have no idea why I think you'd have that sort of intel?”  
“Were the circumstances different, Agent Romanov, rest assured, you would have my _utmost_ protestations of ignorance,” and now there's humour, dry and sardonic, which--  
  
“Uh, no offense, but is this really something you should joke about?”  
  
Romanov tilts her head to one side, contemplating him, and Sam's hands tighten on the steering wheel.  
  
“Probably not,” she says, and her tone is completely, frustratingly unreadable.  
  
“Unfortunately, Sir wrote rather more of his sense of humour into my programming than was strictly advisable,” Jarvis says, and Sam's brain just decides that, nope, that sassy British guy did not just imply he's a computer, hell no, there is a _limit_ on weird shit he can handle, thank you, and surprise nazi infiltration is _it_.  
  
“You are aware,” Jarvis continues, unaware of Sam's mental fucking shutdown, “that Sir and I may not be able to alert or extract every agent in jeopardy.”  
  
It's not a question.  
  
“If I could see another workable option within the timeframe, I'd be laying it out for you,” Romanov says, and it's not accusatory or defensive, just a statement of fact. “Just-- I'd like to make as few house calls as possible.”  
  
“Of course, Agent Romanov. Is there any other pertinent information you need to relay?”  
“No,” she says and then chews on the inside of her cheek for a second. “Don't let Tony blame himself.”  
“As always, I do what I can.”  
  
(Sam understands, at the end of those interminably long three hours, what she meant when she said she was burning SHIELD, and he hopes like hell Stark got enough of them out-- but he also knows it'll never, ever be enough for the loved ones of those he didn't.)  
  
\---  
  
“Don't tell Tony,” Steve says, and then, “ _please_.”  
  
It's not that he doesn't _trust_ Tony, that he doesn't think Tony deserves to _know_ , but-- it's _Bucky_ , and that _wasn't him_ , and he needs Tony to understand that before he tells him, or he'll never _listen_.  
  
Natasha just blinks at him, expression completely blank, but then she inclines her head just so, and Steve lets himself slump in relief.  
  
There's no way Tony would help him find Bucky, if he knew.  
  
(It isn't choosing sides, he tells himself. It's _not_. It's just-- _til the end of the line_. He _promised_.)  
  
\---  
  
Two weeks after the clusterfuck of SHIELDRA, Tony shuffles into the kitchen at three am and is somehow completely unsurprised to see Natasha perched on a bar stool, coffee in hand, face framed by moonlight like some fifties noir femme fatale.  
  
“I found something that--”  
  
She pauses, and what _does_ surprise him is the pinch between her brows, without artifice because it wouldn't _achieve_ anything-- she may be a master spy, but Tony knows all about masks, and he knows that this, now, is a privilege few earn from the Widow.  
  
“You should watch it. Not alone - it will upset you, I think - but I think… it would be worse if I hid it from you.”  
  
“For me,” he asks casually, crossing to the coffee machine without looking at her - his own small show of trust - and pouring himself a mug, “or you?”  
  
“Both,” she settles on. “It would damage our relationship to keep this from you.”  
  
“Ever the spy, huh? Seems like you've got it all thought out. Pretty sure _telling_ someone how you're manipulating them gives the game away, though, Charlotte.”  
  
“I can't be anything other than what I am, Tony,” she says, and when he chances a glance up, there's a lack of expression that's entirely distinct from the blank mask he knows she can wear. He considers her for a moment, then hops up onto the table and puts his mug down by her elbow.  
  
“And what are you?”  
  
“...I don't know,” she admits, and doesn't move away when he shifts, just enough for his knee to brush against her arm.  
  
(He watches the file the next day, Pep pressed up against one side and Rhodey the other, and has never been more grateful for Natasha, no matter her reasons.)


End file.
